


Endure

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Blacksmithing, Character Study, Coping, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I have a lot of feelings about Thorin's blacksmith days, Implied Character Death, Loss, Nightmares, Or probably unhealthy ways of coping, Thorin and Dwalin's bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is of Durin's blood, he can endure</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endure

As much as he wishes he were not, he is used to feeling eyes upon him when he works in some pitiful excuse for a forge, hammering at poor quality metals to make pans, horse shoes, blades or whatever else is needed in the villages of men. They know the skills of dwarves but they still feel the need to gawk at him as he sweats and keeps his curses to himself because above all, he is still a king among his people, a leader and if he must suffer this, he will suffer it with dignity. He is not alone here, Dwalin works alongside him and once they would have spoken, laughed and joked but pain silences them. Gone are the days of joking and shoving one another where they sparred under Balin's watchful eyes and sometimes the eyes of Thorin's father and grandfather. Gone are the days of gold, silver, sapphires, rubies and mithril.  
  
All metal glows red when it's heated. All metal clangs against the anvil. He thinks of Smaug as he hammers away relentlessly, folding steel in a way no smith among men could ever hope to and imagines it is Smaug he is battering, scales and bones and brains and blood smashed against the stone floors of Erebor, a dying beast swallowed up by gold.  
  
The eyes upon him are men who cannot believe the strength of those who are so short and Thorin wonders if their tongues would be so free if they knew they looked upon a prince and a warrior, two who can wield weapons as easily as breathing. Sometimes he has to collect Dwalin from bar brawls where he has left chaos in his wake and Thorin knows that helpless rage in those eyes but he can't give Dwalin the right words, can't say _I know_ and _I understand_ because he is meant to be a leader. Those nights he gets Dwalin back to Balin, lets an older brother tend to the wounds of the younger and goes to the forge to vent his frustrations until his muscles ache and he can hardly breathe. Dís finds him more often than not and her hands are just as strong as his, removing a hammer from his hand as the other grips the back of his neck and pushes him all the way to where they're staying. Not home. Never home.   
  
There are bad days, there are downright terrible days when he can hardly breathe from grief. Sometimes there are days that might even be good.   
  
(In time there will be good days, days in Ered Luin with little dwarflings shrieking and clambering over him begging for stories and later weapons. Now though, right now in this stinking pit of a town there is an inescapable emptiness that they all have to get through. They're dwarves and he is of Durin's blood, he can endure.)  
  
Eyes are upon him and when he looks up to catch Dwalin's eye, Dwalin is giving him something close to a smirk, jerking his head slightly to something behind Thorin's shoulder. Thorin almost doesn't look but he does, wondering what eyes will be upon him today and there is a snarl upon his lips when he pauses from hammering a pot into shape. Immediately a crowd of young women cease their giggles, cheeks flushed pink. He grunts, gets back to his work and ignores them as best he can and ignores Dwalin too when he starts to regale him with tales of wenching because he damn well knows what Dwalin is getting at. It's a long standing subject with them now when they don't want to talk about anything else but can't maintain the smothering silence in the heat of the forge, Dwalin hinting that maybe he should be putting other irons in the fires, pounding his frustrations out another way. He loves Dwalin like a brother and in a sense they are, brothers in arms and cousins, but he has no desire to grope at wenches in taverns or spend hard-earned coin in the brothels. Dwalin still reasons that Thorin would have his pick of the dwarf women and that's true – he had that back in Erebor too, their strong hands and plentiful curves but he can't bring himself to find someone even for a night.  
  
The matter is always dropped soon enough. Thorin has become a master of lowering his brows and glaring just hard enough to be granted peace until the next time Dwalin starts his lewd mutterings.  
  
It's a long day of working to fill an order on time and Thorin is glad to be done when dark has finally fallen, sending Dwalin off while he tidies up, taking a long swig of stale water from a cup – it's warm from the forge, leaves a metallic taste in his mouth but he ignores it. He can have an ale with his sister once he's cleaned up, let her braid his hair before he tries to sleep and push away the nightmares. Fire and blood and screams will echo in his ears, jolting him awake in the small hours, sweating and shaking as though he'd been in battle.  
  
(And years later when he volunteers to look after two troublesome nephews who come clambering into his bed with their own nightmares of goblins under the bed or werewolves howling at the door and windows, he'll stay awake all night to guard them and pray that they will never have to know the horrors and fears that haunt him day and night.)


End file.
